The Missing Person and Agent Booth
by GeorgiaGirl19
Summary: Booth and Brennan search for the killer in a missing person case that still haunts Booth from his first days in the FBI. BB, of course.
1. Chapter 1

**This is my first BONES Fanfic, but I have finished or started on several non-related books (fiction) that I hope to publish someday. Until then, college and work have taken my time like a thief. Anyway, enjoy this. I have more written, but don't have time to post in now. More chapters will be forthcoming, but you'll just have to be patient. I have more concerns.  (Like the 12 page research paper for World History I due Tuesday.) Updates may be slow, but I hope they're worth it. If you read, please review! **

**The Missing Person and Agent Booth**

FBI Special Agent Seeley Booth swept into the lab with his usual flair, swiped his pass card and lunged up the steps to Dr. Temperance Brennan's office. She had her head bent over her desk, her nose buried in a book. He titled his head to get a better look at the title.

"FBI Weapons Protocol." Brennan's head snapped up at the sound of his voice in her inner sanctum. He groaned, rolling his eyes toward the ceiling in exasperation. "How many times do I have to tell you, Bren, you're not carrying a weapon. I am the FBI agent and you…"

"Are researching for my next book," she interrupted. Booth made a sound suspiciously like a snort. She closed the book carefully and set it on her already packed desk. "What do you need, Booth? I'm very, very busy right now with a new find."

He dropped a thick file on her desk. "Mr. or Mrs. 'been dead for millennia' will have to wait. New case, Bones. Well, new to you." His eyes darkened and his brows furrowed with memories. "This case has been haunting me all of my career." He glanced up and met her eyes over the file she now held. Even she could see his intense interest in the case. His voice deepened, softened. "This is really important to me, Bren."

She held his gaze for a moment, her analytical mind working over his words, the tone. "Okay." Her gaze flicked back to the file folder. "Tell me what you've got."

Booth let out a breath he didn't even know that he had been holding. He knew that the scientist in Brennan dictated that she devote herself fully to every case, but he needed her to understand his need for justice in this one, particularly. Not only as a scientist, but as a partner, sort of. He started his narrative at the beginning, giving her more information than she'd ever get from the facts in the file. "I first got this case two weeks after I started out at the Bureau. It began as a missing persons case, but then we found a crime scene that indicated that our MP was dead. We found a hotel room covered in the victim's blood – there was no way anyone could have survived that kind of blood loss. We couldn't get any info from the scene. No prints, no DNA, no fibers not native to the scene. Just blood." He paused, and Brennan watched his struggle with the memory of a room soaked in blood and the helplessness of missing justice. He drew a sharp breath and refocused. "We never found the victim, and it was marked as a cold case."

"But you still worked it." Her dry voice was not questioning, but stating.

"Yeah, I kept it on my open list. I just couldn't accept that we had lost. I worked it in my spare time, but there were never any breaks…until now." He reached into the folder and pulled out a photo. "We found our victim."


	2. Chapter 2

**Okay, this was faster than I thought, because I should be in my car right now, heading to work. That's okay. This is for all those lovely people that reviewed. Thanks! I always appreciate input. If you have an idea about how the story should go, feel free to tell me, but there's no guarantee that it'll end up in there. Anyhow, this one's longer, but finals are coming and papers are due, so the next might be a longer time coming. Sorry. :P**

**Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters. They are the property of Fox Network, except the one's you don't recognize. (ie, dead girl, boyfriend, etc.) I'll give them back when I'm done playing. **

Brennan examined the photo. The bones showed that the victim had been arranged in a spread-eagle position, her arms and legs flung out and her head turned to the side. The bones were brown and stained from being buried in rich black soil, and at a glance she could tell that the victim was female, from the shape of the pelvic girdle. She shifted her attention back to Booth. He was staring at the photo, and she could see the struggle in his face. He met her eyes and smiled grimly.

"I'll get him now, Bones. I've got a body, and I've got you. This jerk-off doesn't have a chance."

Brennan felt the weight of his expectations heavily. Even though she knew that every case demanded her best, she felt the pressure with this case, for Booth. She knew she had to solve it, For Booth.

"I need the bones. This photo isn't enough. I need…"

"I know," Booth interrupted. "They're being sent over, along with soil samples from the burial site for Hodgins to poke through."

"He doesn't poke, Booth. He's a scientist. He analyzes."

"He plays with bugs, Bren, and he analyzes crud."

"Easy, kids. You don't want to offend a squint." Angela's voice from the computer screen broke up their quarrel.

"Hi, Angela. No offense to the squints."

Angela smiled. "None taken, Booth. I know that subtlety isn't a big deal for you. Bren, I need to talk to you about the Anasazi skeleton you sent down this morning."

"Sorry, Ange. Booth's got a new case that I've got to focus on. We'll have to work on the Anasazi later."

"Okay, but when you get a chance, I've got a big surprise for you. Whatever you need on this case, you know I'm here. Just let me know when you're ready for a sketch."

"I'll call you. Thanks, Ange." The screen went blank, and she turned toward the agent at her side. "Take me to the bones."

The skeleton law on the table, carefully arranged into the ghostly form of a life. The delicate bone structure of the skull and the length of the bones indicated the youth of the victim. The shape of the pelvis was female, and Brennan gently stroked her gloved finger down a fracture in one of the thin ribs. A groove in the spinal column showed the passage of a bullet through her body. The fractures on the ribs, arms and legs were evidence of serious trauma. She picked up the victim's left ulna and examined a fracture closely.

"What have you got, Bones?" Booth leaned over her shoulder, crowding her space. She shrugged him off, but did not vent her frustration orally like she usually would have done. She took a magnifying glass and peered through it at the spider web of lines on the bones.

"This break was pre-mortem, by several months or even years. It had time to heal completely. It's a twisting break, like when someone grabs and arm and twists, suddenly." She demonstrated by grabbing Booth's arm and wrenching it.

"Ow!" He snatched his arm back, rubbing it carefully. "What possessed you?"

Bren's eyes had the glazed-over look of concentration. "I've seen breaks like this before, Booth, and always on abused women or children. A man's hand has enough strength to twist a woman's arm enough to create these 'spider-web' fractures, and a man or woman can create them in the soft bones of a child." She shook her head, sadly. When she met Booth's eyes, she saw the pain in them. "You couldn't have done anything differently, could you?" It was more of a challenge than a question.

"I don't…"

"Could you?" she interrupted.

"No. At the time, I was doing everything that I could. There was nothing, Bren. We never saw any signs of abuse. Her boyfriend was out of town when she disappeared, and he rushed back as soon as we contacted him. His fear and pain were genuine. I've kept tabs on him over the years, and he's never gotten past it, never gotten married or had another serious girlfriend. He's always been sure that she was alive somewhere, that she'd come back. At least now he has closure, I guess."

Brennan placed her hand softly on his broad shoulder. The dark material of his FBI-issue suit shifted with his breathing, warmed by the contact with his skin. Unexpectedly, she wished that he hand was ungloved, uncovered. She let her hand fall heavily to her side. Ever since Booth had raced to her rescue from the hospital and again in New Orleans, she'd felt slightly uncomfortable with him. She wasn't ready for a relationship, and didn't want to jeopardize their partnership with a failed romance. He tried to meet her eyes, but she wouldn't look at him, so he crooked a finger under her chin to pull her gaze up. Her nearly translucent grey-blue eyes were clouded with uncertainty and something more. Misunderstanding the origin of her anxiety, he tried to reassure her.

"We'll catch him. You and me and these bones, we'll get his this time."

Nodding her head, grateful that he had misunderstood her fear, she pulled her chin from his grasp. The delicate skin of her jaw burned from the contact with his hands. "I need to get his skull to Angela."

"We have her face, Bones. We don't need an id after the dental records were confirmed."

"Angela will give us more than a face, Booth. She gives us a scenario, a visual representation of the events surrounding the victim's death from the information that we give her. She's a scientist, not just an artist."

"I wasn't dissing her. I just didn't think." Brennan's brow furrowed at the word "dissing." He laughed. "It means disrespect. I keep forgetting that slang doesn't register with you. I meant no disrespect to Angela, Temperance."

"No you're making fun of me. I'm not stupid, Seeley." She stressed the use of his first name. He grinned at her, ready to make a snappy come back, but his cell phone rang.

"Saved by the bell."

Brennan shrugged. There was more pop culture shining through, references to things that she never understood. She gave Booth a blank stare.

"You know, the television show? Zack, Screech, Kelly, Lisa, Slater? Any of this ringing a bell?"

"No bells here. I guess I must have missed it."

Booth shook his head. The teen revolution of the nineties, and she missed it. He was learning not to be surprised anymore by the things that she never experienced. He put the phone to her ear. "Booth." He made the appropriate hums at times, said thanks, and flipped the phone closed. "That was my guy who was running down the former boyfriend. He just found him, in the morgue."

Brennan's eyebrows arrowed toward her hairline. "He's dead?"

"No, Bones, he's hanging out in the morgue because it's a happening place."

"That was sarcasm, right?"

"Yeah. Yeah, Brennan. That was sarcasm." He grabbed the manila file folder from the cabinet in the corner of the room. "Let's go."

He strode from the room, leaving Brennan to scramble after him.


	3. Chapter 3

**Yeah! A new chapter! I know it's short, but bear with me. I have had a serious case of writer's block along with a serious case of college finals.  Funny how they run hand in hand. I'm graduating Friday although I won't be really done until next semester (long story)! Yeah! Anyway, enjoy, and the more you beg and plead, the faster I write!  (I think.) Anyway, it's worth a try. **

Chapter 3

Brennan sucked in her breath as the dark SVU cut corners and edged under lights that were a little too pink for her taste. She glanced over at her partner, took in the stress lines on his forehead and the tight, pale set of his mouth. Her eyes flickered back to the windshield, her voice steady despite her desperate and immediate fear for her life.

"He's not going anywhere, Booth. The dead don't travel."

"I know." Silence reigned in the front seat.

"So." Pause. She glanced at him again. "Why the rush?"

A fleeting grin passed over his lips. "Point taken." He slowed down, marginally, and eased up on the lights and corners. He turned his head to look at her. "Thanks for coming with me, Bones. I know that flesh and blood is not your thing."

She groaned. "Thanks for reminding me. I was trying not to think about the fact that this dead guy is not burned, crushed, decomposed or otherwise unrecognizable."

"It always amazes me that despite your ability to handle any type of dead body that doesn't look like a dead body, you have a serious aversion to dead bodies that look like dead bodies."

"It's not the one that look dead that I don't like. It's the ones that look alive that I don't really care for."

"Ah. That makes more sense."

Although she wasn't sure, she sensed a little bit of sarcasm in that last remark, but let it slide, for now. She was focusing on the rapidly approaching brick façade of the city morgue. She let out a shaky breath when the vehicle finally came to rest in front of the building, and resisted the urge to drop to her knees and kiss the ground in relief.

The morgue's elevator was unbearable, unbelievable slow, as is the case in most government buildings. The ride gave Brennan time to dwell on the sight that would be confronting her, which was not necessarily a good thing. She shuddered at the thought of the cold, marbled flesh and bloated overall appearance of the body. Booth chuckled, deep in his throat. She slitted her eyes at him.

"I'll be fine. Let's just get this over with."

The elevator rumbled to a halt and jerked three times before the doors grated open. They stepped off and into the underworld of the dead and those who lived with them. A small, wiry man stepped out of an office off the corridor. He reminded Brennan of a mole, his tiny, pale eyes surrounded with thin, wire rimmed glasses and his white lab coat flapping around his undersized body. He scurried toward the two, his right hand outstretched.

"Agent Booth, Dr. Brennan I presume. My name is Harvey Fishbold, Dr. Harvey Fishbold. I am the medical examiner here." Met with silence, he giggled nervously. "Well, truth be told, I am the Assistant Medical Examiner, but Dr. Truman is not here at present, so I was instructed to show you around and introduce you to our newest guest." Although Booth's stomach clenched at the hotel jokes and images that brought to mind, he managed to retain both his lunch and his manners.

"Dr. Fishbold, we can really skip the whole 'tour de morgue' and get on with the introductions."

"Sure, sure." He shuffled his small feet nervously. "Let me just get you some coats and gloves and goggles." He scampered off to a cabinet in the corner and withdrew two white lab coats, a box of latex gloves and two safety goggles. He was back in a flash, deposited the objects into Booth's and Brennan's arms, and took off down the corridor toward a door at the end marked autopsy. The two looked at one another, shrugged, and started off after the strange little man, struggling into their protective clothing along the way.


	4. Chapter 4

**Okay, ya'll! It's here. I am back in school (yes, I'm taking classes in the summer, but if I want my degree, this is how you do it.) Much less time for writing, but I'll try my best for my loyal readers  You know who you are! Anyway, for those of you who read the story but don't review, how do I know what to fix! I'm getting a complex, like writer-who-gets-few-reviews complex or something. I'm asking me "what if they don't like it and they are telling their friends I suck but not telling me and then I get panic attacks and lack of breathing and such. Okay, not really, but I do get a little jumpy feeling in my stomach when I get a review alert on my e-mail  For those of you responsible for the jumpy feeling, thanks! You're my friend and this story's for you. For those of you who are responsible for the panic attacks, you can still read the story, but it belongs to the jumpies. **

**Disclaimer: I don't own anyone, yada yada. Except for Dr. Fishbold who is beginning to grow on me.  But not in a yucky way. Like mold. Or fungus. Anyway, he's mine.  Enjoy!**

**Chapter 4**

The overpowering scent of antiseptic hit them in a wave as the strange Dr. Fishbold pushed his way through the swinging double doors of the autopsy room. Booth held the door for Brennan and then followed her through. The sterile white walls seemed to close in on her, and she took a few stabilizing breaths.

"I very strongly dislike the morgue."

Booth wisely kept his opinion of her fear to himself. "They're dead, Bones. They're not going to jump up on a table and do a little dance. It's just like looking at bones, only with skin." Pleased with his analysis and certain that she could not refute his logic, he started toward the drawer that Dr. Fishbold was hauling on. The little man had to put all of his weight into pulling the drawer from its resting place, but he got it out and peered over the short sides. Booth peered with him and cursed under his breath.

"I was still sort of hoping that it wasn't him, that there was a mistake."

"You're sure it's the boyfriend?" Bren had sidled up to his side, but refused to look into the drawer.

"Oh yeah. I spent hours in interview with this guy. It's him." He turned to the good doctor. "Has the ME determined caused of death yet?"

Overjoyed at being addressed, he fairly bubbled with news. "Dr. Truman, our Medical Examiner, determined that the cause of death was the nine-millimeter bullet that appears to have passed directly through the deceased's skull."

"Well yes, that would do it," Bren muttered.

Undeterred, he continued. "There is also the matter of the ligature marks surrounding the deceased's throat. There is minimal hemorrhaging of the eyes, however, so it is unlikely that he was indeed strangled to death."

"Sounds like the marks that someone would get while trying to get away from an attacker. Maybe an attacker carrying a nine mil?"

"Booth, don't hypothesize until we have all of the facts."

"Hypothesis is how researchers work, Bones. I know. I had Biology. You know, the Scientific Method and all that jazz?"

"There's a difference between making a hypothesis to direct research and making a hypothesis in a murder investigation without having all of the pertinent facts. We're not conducting an experiment here, Booth. This is a murder investigation."

"I know what we're doing. I'm the agent here, remember? I'm the one with all of the training in investigation techniques. I know how to conduct a murder investigation."

"True, but there are dangers inherent to fixating on a theory to the point that you make your evidence fit your theory."

"I'm not fixating, Bones. I'm merely suggesting a possible choice to explain the evidence that we have so far. I'm not making a decision, or a report, now. Just thinking out loud."

"Talk less, think more."

"Dead people make you snippy."

"Don't start."

"I'm just saying that it's not a stretch to think that the vic struggled with his attacker, hence the struggle-like marks on his neck, and was subsequently shot by said attacker, hence the nine-mil hole in his head. Evidence, hypothesis. Direct link. Not a stretch."

"No stupid. You don't have to talk slow."

"Just making sure."

Brennan paced away from the drawer. Booth, keeping one eye on her, again peered into the cavernous temporary resting place of the man he'd once known. A wave of hopelessness and grief swept over him. He'd failed Conner Blake, just as he'd failed Amy Phillips. He forced himself to keep his eyes open, despite his desperate desire to make the situation go away. He was suddenly struck with a desire to see his son, to immerse himself in that life, that spark of joy burning inside the small boy. That piece of himself, his gift to the world. It was the start of one of his weekends, but he was likely going to have to cancel, once again. He knew that Rebecca thought that he was an irresponsible father, that he was neglecting his responsibility to his son. What she couldn't understand, what no one understood, was that everything he did, he did for Parker, to make his future safer and brighter. He stopped terrorists, halted killers in the faint hope that he would, somehow, make his son's future easier and safer. He breathed through his mouth, trying to ignore the scent of death that hung like a pall over the autopsy room. He glanced over at Dr. Fishbold, fidgeting on the other side of the drawer.

"You can put him back. I'm done."

"We need his x-rays."

"They did an autopsy, Bones."

"Do you, or do you not, want me to work this case?" Without waiting for a response, she continued. "I need the x-rays, since I'm guessing that stripping the skin from the bones and transporting them to the Medio-Legal Lab is out of the question."

"Yeah, I'm pretty sure that the Bureau, not to mention the family of the victim, would be opposed to such an action."

"I want to make sure that the only trauma to the body is the gunshot wound and the bruising around the throat. You never know the full story until you go to the bone."

"Okay, okay. Doctor, can we get copies of the full-body x-rays of this gentleman?"

"Certainly, not a problem, I'll have Nancy, that our receptionist, I'll have her pull them right up and send them over."

"Thanks. Let's go, Bones. We have things to do."

Dr. Fishbold led them out of the morgue, past a basket where they deposited their goggles, gloves, and coats, and into the sunlight. They all three blinked as they hit the brightness, two in relief and one in disgust.

"It's always so bright outside. I simply don't know how you stand it."

Neither said anything, just watched the strange little man scurry back inside like a mouse into a hole.

"Why does a morgue need a 'receptionist?'" Booth's dry tone failed to register on Brennan.

"Booth, even a morgue gets phone calls. Someone has to answer the telephone while the doctors have their hands in someone's abdominal cavity."

"As pleasant as that picture is, it's still freaky, like a spooky, final hotel."

"You are very, very odd." Booth's incredulous laugh didn't faze her. "Well, you are. Not in the same way as a squint. We're smart, so we're naturally odd. You're…"

"What? Stupid and strange?"

"That's not what I meant. Booth!"

She called to him, but it was in vain. He was already in the car. Why couldn't she just learn to keep her mouth shut in situations like that? Her social ineptitude never failed to end her up with her foot shoved firmly in her mouth. She rolled her shoulders as if to roll away the discomfort, but it lingered with her as she climbed into her side of the SUV. Neither met the other's eyes as they pulled away from the curb, heading toward the gravesite.


End file.
